THEY CALL HER 'MARY'/ Beauty Reals

I once read that Mary surrendered to love in every encounter and changed. Between conceiving my first child and being pregnant with my youngest, I, too, submitted to the singular and formidable beauty of something/someone as prescient as love and changed. 

For fear of exposing the "hard to explain" side I keep close to the vest, I hesitate to share this story. But when Mary's name rolls from my children's lips like a best friend's, I dare conceal her presence in my life. 

On an early morning in the fall of 2000, I woke to an intense pressure only a full bladder can incite. It was 3AM. I know this because the cherry-colored light emanating from my husband's ancient Alarm clock flashed at 3AM. We'd been keeping it a secret, but we were pregnant with our first child and approaching the end of our first trimester. I stepped out of bed into complete darkness and tip-toed toward the bathroom while my husband slept. Only that time, that small beam of light from the alarm clock took a back seat to that which waited for me in the dark.  

A person in a dark cloak appeared to the left of a pair of wooden sliding doors that led to the bathroom. Illumined by twilight with hands in prayer and head bowed, the person seemed calm while my heart beat out of my chest. Although I in no way felt threatened, I backed away, jumped in bed, buried myself under the covers, and tried my damnedest to forget what I thought I saw.

Although hours later, now awake and riding the subway to work, I could not shake what had just occurred. At lunch, though skeptical and somewhat hesitant to speak on what I thought I saw, I described the encounter to my co-workers. Denise, a devout Catholic, lit up at the mention of the person in a cloak with hands in prayer. She told me that while it’s rare, what I'd described could only be the Virgin Mary. Adding that the 'Holy Mother' visits to bring light to an immaculate occurrence. Although Denise had no clue I was pregnant, I couldn’t help but think Mary's visit had something to do with my unborn child. 

Two years later, while walking my daughter to school, she said, 

“Mommy, Jesus brings the sun, and Mary brings the rain.” 

Baffled by her statement, I asked, 
“Why do you say that?” 
She replied, 
“Because when Mary cries, it rains.”

I was dumbstruck. A two-year-old expressing insight on Jesus and Mary. The whole experience seemed apocalyptic, like one of those horror movies where a child looks up at an adult right before aliens tear through the atmosphere and utters something spooky and unusual. This was one of those moments. The atmosphere remained intact, and the world continued as usual. But from that point forward, I no longer regarded my daughter's words as infantile chatter.

Another two years went by, and we'd just brought our second daughter home from the hospital. The baby was crying, which made my oldest daughter uneasy.  So she reached her little hand inside the bassinet to calm her sister and declared, 

“I’m a better mother than you are!”

But it was during our third pregnancy that Mary's presence rang the loudest. Despite my shock, I appreciated her defiance and marveled at her urgency to protect her little sister. It's a quality she maintains until today.  

During my second trimester, my oldest passed me in the hallway, placed her hand on my belly, and said, 

“Mary says she will give me a letter for the baby’s name each night, I dream.” 

It had been a while since she’d spoken of Mary, so I asked, “Mary, who?” 

At only four years old, she replied with a duh-like expression, “Jesus’ mother.” 

Once again, I was dumbstruck. Throughout my pregnancy, my daughter continued to deliver each divine letter like a sacred gift until the day she declaimed, 

“Mary said that’s all the letters.” 

Although it would be the last time she speaks Mary's name, Mary has since become the main topic for my youngest daughter, Bailey. 

Once, days after a thunderous lightning storm, Bailey walked into my bedroom and said, 

“I didn’t come into your bed the other night because she said, 'I am here, and you are safe.' Her voice sounds just like yours, Mommy.” 

“Whose voice sounds like mine?” A quizzical look formed on my face.

“Mary’s,” she smiles.

Once again, Mary's presence was confirmed. But that time, I did not question the mention of her name, nor did I ponder why she was here. Instead, her benevolence comforted me.

At only ten years of age, Bailey is a prolific writer. And though she's a private person, her writing is a window into her thoughts. Her stories often include an angel (of sorts) who looms, roams, and hovers, offering security and comfort in times of great fear and anxiety. I love that she's mastering the art of creative fiction, but I’m convinced she, too, has knowledge of something/someone other than her father and me here to guide her through life. It makes me wonder if, as a baby, those distinct coos of comfort I'd hear in the middle of the night were responses to that someone/something she describes in her writings. 

The other day, Bailey entered my bedroom to share her "favorite song in the world, "Mary, Did you know? By Pentatonix. But instead of singing along, her usual response, she lays her head on my lap and takes a deep breath. She was almost unrecognizable in that deep state of relaxation, given she was always busy with her hands, mouth, or feet. When the song ended, I asked, 

“Do you know the story of who named you?”

Before replying, she smiled and looked me in the eye, and said,   

"Yes, Mary."